


Standing Count

by krowe (k_rowe)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Boys don't talk about feelings, Canon-Typical Violence, Clubbing, Eventual Fluff, I just made that up, I kill myself, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Photographer!Tim/Boxer!Jason, Profanity, Slow Burn, Strong Language, Underage Drinking, alfred is salty, gay at first fight, height/size differences, how do you write that, lots of profanity, some internalized homophobia, what even is past tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_rowe/pseuds/krowe
Summary: Cruiserweight prizefighter Jason and aspiring photographer Tim fall hard and fast for each other. But feelings are complicated and fuck shit up.Standing Count: count of eight taken by a boxer who, although not knocked down, appears unable to continue fighting





	1. Rabbit Punch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexicon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/gifts).



> lexiconallie suggested a Photographer!Tim/Boxer!Jason AU. I was so inspired! Boxing is the best. Not that I claim to know anything about it. Or film photography. Don't judge me too harshly.
> 
> Alex also requested "fluff" which I tried my best at. (How can someone be bad at fluff?) I hope you like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason defends his title and Tim attends his first boxing match.
> 
> Rabbit Punch: illegal punch; a quick, sharp strike to the back of the neck derived from the use of the technique by hunters to kill rabbits.

Roman ‘The Black’ Sionis took eight rounds to wear down the title defender. A peerless feat over cruiserweight champion Jason ‘Red Hood’ Todd, known best for brutal, bloody two-bout knockouts. By the eighth round, Jason looked worse than he usually dished out. But Jason’s blocks did not finally fall until two minutes into the ninth. His famously flawless slip stuttered on the fatigued pivot. The lack of rotation cost him dearly. Sionis’ right jab connected with Jason’s temple and cheekbone. The abused skin immediately rent along the jut of Jason’s bone and blood wept from the wound. His vision swarmed with black spots, obscuring the following left uppercut to his jaw. His feet twisted under him. But it was the low right hook into Jason’s gut that finally sent Jason reeling into the ropes. He grappled for purchase on the lifeline. His arms missed the first and clung desperately to the second strung rope but he’d fallen too far. His knees struck the canvas with force that made every bone shudder. His legs would not obey him and unfold and stand for love or money. And he really needed the damn money.

Jason was dully aware of the referee hauling Sionis away, but bitterly wished the man would just finish the job. Sionis was not unknown for the bloodthirsty fouls that cost him matches in the past. The ref must have coerced Sionis to the neutral corner because he started booming out the count. Jason’s heart rattled against his chest irregularly to the drum of his looming loss. _Eight. Seven. Six._  

Something akin to stubbornness made Jason push off the ropes and roll back onto his shins. There was no way he was getting back to his feet, unaided or not. But the thought of losing clinging to support festered in Jason. Would rather suffer a standing count. No matter how it incited the uproarious spectators. They were only blurred shapes through Jason’s one good eye but he already knew what they looked like. Every kind of nameless face had been indelibly impressed upon his memory after years in the ring. The fury on the face of his upset fans, the despair on the people who’d bet on him. But especially, always, the glow of the faces from all the times Jason had stood in the midst of their adoration, arm thrust in the air and revolving in place over his fallen enemy. The way Sionis was doing across the ring.

_Four._

It might have been God or fate responsible. But the fact was one of hundreds of ringsiders spontaneously sprang into focus with impossible detail. He was four rows back and leaning forward, fists clenching on the seat in front of him for support. His brow was fraught with anxiety but his luminous blue eyes were contrarily reassuring. His jaw was narrow but sharp and set with grim determination. Some of his dark hair fell across his steady gaze where it had escaped his budding ponytail. He wore a god-awful mint microdot-patterned button up tucked into a belted pair of tan chinos. It was unbuttoned just low enough the shadow of his pecs could be appreciated. If no other part of his wardrobe could be. He was lightly freckled across the bridge of his perfect nose and smooth cheeks, only visible because he was so pale. Maybe he was pallid with worry. Maybe nature made him that way. _Nature did a damn fine job_ thought Jason. The boy bit his lower lip and Jason wanted to bite it too.

_Three._

_Was he trying to say something?_ It looked an awful lot like, “hold that pose” and the boy produced a _fucking camera_ from somewhere. There were as many cameras as cell phone owners in the stands but the kid had something ugly and old fashion to lug out just when Jason was feeling a little low. Jason grit his teeth and rasped, “Little Shit—!”

_Two._

Call it love or money or pathological tenacity, but something got Jason to stand he didn’t think he had left in himself. The rioting in the stands when he hauled himself to his freshly planted feet made his left eardrum pulse furiously and ache like hell. Or it might have been the earlier right cross. He sensed another one coming. The ref presumably ducked out of the way of Sionis’ charge because he barreled toward Jason with unchecked abandon. Even hearing him come with his good ear, Jason couldn’t bring himself to look away from the pretty thing four rows back.  Jason leveled a daring smirk at the telephoto lens before he wheeled to face his real enemy.

The predictable right cross that still managed to graze Jason was the last blow Sionis would land. Jason shouldn’t have wasted time on the kid or he would have swerved out of the way clean. Jason lowered his stance and braced his left foot, swiveled on the ball of his right and pummeled the man low with a tight combination. He advanced where Sionis swayed and Jason landed a mighty uppercut. The man dropped. The ref counted. Jason spat blood and rubbed his freely bleeding gash with the back of his boxing glove. His chest heaved and sweat trickled down his back and made rivulets in the valleys of his abs. He wondered if the little prick was photographing him _now._

Handler Pennyworth met him on the ring to thrust Jason’s arm into the air and guide Jason in turning steady revolutions so everyone could see his bloody, muscled glory. It all felt very familiar and right, but his heart skipped when they got to the boy’s section. He wasn’t there anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman Sionis is Black Mask's civilian name in RHATO Rebirth.


	2. Back Pedal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is a 35mm film nerd and he might also be a budding stalker.
> 
> Back Pedal: to retreat from an opponent while still facing them

Tim apologized to his mother for staying out so late and promised he would pay better attention next time. Mrs. Drake frowned suspiciously and wanted to know why Tim smelt like cigarettes and booze if he was studying at his friend’s house, but Tim was spared the production of lying when she said to her husband suddenly, “Oh Jack, don’t pack those cuff links. You’ll look like new money.” Tim crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway while he watched his parents match silk ties and dresses. They chose navy because it made Mr. Drake’s eyes stand out and Mrs. Drake’s hair look radiant. “Sorry, Sweetie,” chirped Mrs. Drake as she tucked her gown into a garment bag. “What were you saying?”

“I, I’m just tired,” said Tim wearily. “I’m going to bed.”

Mr. Drake consulted his watch. "Our car leaves in a couple hours. We'll be gone before you get up. So, be good."

"That means no boys over."

Tim promised he'd be good, suffered a kiss on his cheek, told his parents he loved them and ducked out of their room, down the long hallway to his own. But he did not go to bed. He deposited his bag on an armchair, fished out the camera and crossed his room to another door. The adjacent wall had originally been sealed between two generous bedrooms but Tim had remodeled his second one into a dark room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dull red light but shortly the familiar lines of his tubs and instruments shifted into focus. He extracted the film from his 1967 Leica M4 and got to work with feverish excitement.

It turned out the experts were right. Tim frowned over the fourth lackluster print he rinsed. Rangefinders really weren’t the answer to sports photography. He’d relied on his M4 after years of powerful performance with landscapes and nature. It seemed disloyal to switch to the SLR’s professionals routinely recommended for action shots. Not all the shots from the night were bad, to be sure. Ones like that of Jason at the end, hanging on the ropes in the stillness before he rose to victory— Tim had captured every plane of his face, the wane cast of his eyes, the slump in his purpling shoulders, the dust motes in the air. It took Tim’s breath away.

But eight bouts worth of mid-thrusting jabs and hooks lacked vibrancy and detail he craved. Tim clipped the last print he’d develop that night on an empty clothespin with a great sigh. On his way out of the lab, he stopped to admire the ropes one again. Tim wasn’t a sadist; it pained him to see Jason that way, broken and tired. But knowing how the fight turned out in the end imbued Jason’s weak moment with deeper intrinsic value. To Tim at least.

He stayed up even later tossing under his blankets thinking about the fight. He closed his eyes and relived the chaos of every moment, the clash of flesh and raw power colliding in the ring. Maybe even slipped from memory to dream. Until pressure built up inside his briefs, to Tim’s surprise and embarrassment. _God, please don’t let this mean I’m a creeper_ he thought desperately as heat pooled in his cheeks.

It didn’t stop him from slipping a hand down his front though.


	3. Sidewinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is more pleased than he would have thought to see the photographer again.
> 
> Sidewinder: a blow struck from the side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up roughly 1 week after chapters one and two. Jason has largely recovered from his injuries.

The strike missed Jason’s ear by a breath. He committed to the evasion and danced out of the corner he’d boxed himself in on purpose. Grayson’s reach was longer but slower. In the time it took him to retract his extended arm Jason was already behind him. His fist met Grayson’s face mid-turn and sent Grayson reeling in the opposite direction and stumbling. He caught himself on the ropes but the blue stripes tattooed down his spine heaved with his labored breath. He shook his head, like he was trying to juggle his thoughts back into place. He should have stayed on the ropes. No sooner had Jason found the blue ring of his eyes did he cut the man’s cheek again and sent him freefalling to the ground. Jason stood over Grayson’s prone body.

“Let it go, Blue,” Jason said with a lot of superiority and a little admiration. The man was trying to navigate his elbows under his chest, like he thought he could make it back to his feet or some fool thing like it.

Pennyworth, spotted and white haired, glanced up from the ledgers open on his desk, down his crooked nose through his bifocals. They seemed to get thicker every year. “He’s right, Mister Richard,” he said. “Save your face.” The remission of support destabilized Grayson’s fortitude and he fell upon the mat like a sack. Alfred glanced cursorily at Jason’s agitated, primed stance, the knit of tension in his body, hunger in his eyes. “Go cool down,” he added to Jason, frowning.

“Where’s Wayne? I need a real fight, Penny,” he said, like he hadn’t heard the man, and punched his gloved knuckles together.

Pennyworth reacquainted himself with his paperwork, grunting at the numbers he was coming up with. “At home, God willing. With his family.” He snorted derisively, as only he could. “Like you should be. Are you still single?”

Jason groaned and lashed at the air with the same devastating strike that took down Grayson just a few feet away, step springing. Kept fighting the ghost of his opponent, regretted knocking him down so fast. “Come on, Blue. You got one more bout, right?”

“Let him be,” called Pennyworth from his desk. “You beat him. Bloodlust is unflattering.”

That chastened Jason, reminded him of Sionis. He brought a gloved fist to his mouth and pulled the knot on his wrist with his teeth. With one free hand he unfettered the other. He discarded the worn boxing gloves and reached for Grayson. “All right, Stripes,” he said. “Give me your hand.” In the end he had to scoop one arm under the other man’s arm and haul him to his feet. Grayson found them shortly after, but his head lolled. “Damn,” gasped Jason. “What handsome devil did that to you?” Meaning the angry red swell on Grayson’s cheek.

Grayson grumbled. “Some son of a bitch,” he said, but with a weak, rallying smile.

“Aw, you love it when I kick your ass. Keeps you humble.”

Grayson indulged in a laugh, even though it pained him. “Sounds like we need to find someone that can kick _your_ ass.”

Pennyworth spoke up, but did not look up, from his books. “Indeed.”

Jason made an offended face. “I can’t help it nobody can stop me.”

But someone did; stopped Jason where he stood and made him catch his breath. It was the small, dark haired boy with the camera. He’d just rounded the corner from the main entrance and ventured deeper quietly. There was wonder in his delicate, pretty features Jason found mesmeric. Jason stood very still, Grayson hanging on him, and tried to school his quirking mouth. The boy held another camera in his hands but Jason wondered if he was too impressed or horrified by the dump to use it. The place was run down and shitty and stank and the only people inside were grumpy and busy like Pennyworth, tired and beat up like Grayson, or so deeply absorbed in their training like Cass that they were as good as props.

The boy walked slowly, turning to look at _everything—_ even the bin of soiled towels, the busted speed bag, and the patched equipment. The little thing eventually stumbled across the first aid station and probably did not notice he was staring rudely at that point. Jason’s mouth twitched in a tease of a smile. No, the boy was not staring. _Studying._ Jason helped Grayson to the ropes facing the boy, to lean on and continue watching. Now the boy was directly across the floor, facing away but looking at a promotional image of Jason from an old fight, incidentally. Jason folded his arms over the ropes, smiled and called, “hey Featherweight. 'Hold that pose'.” He was pleased to catch the boy’s surprise and alarm in the floor-to-ceiling mirror just to his right. The boy spun right around on a dime looking flushed.

Someone over Jason’s shoulders whistled low and moved into Jason’s peripheral from the locker room. He had his grizzled hair matted with damp and a towel around his waist, his heavyweight stature threatening and wet. Grant pinned the boy in his long stare who blinked back at Grant with curiosity equal to Grant’s scrutiny. “Featherweight? _Pinweight_ more like,” he growled. “Look at his skinny ass.” The boy flinched, probably because of the way the man looked— Grant looked more ‘Bear’ than ‘Wildcat’— than because he was being insulted. Maybe he didn’t know.

Jason said to himself, overheard by Grasyon, “ _I see it_.”

The words were barely passed his lips before he could _feel_ the scalding from Pennyworth’s glower on his back. Apparently he had overheard too. “You two, behave yourselves. I won’t stand for any lawyers on my _ass._ ” The last word really brought out the Queen’s English in the man who snuck a soft ‘r’ in the middle. That seemed to pique Cass’ interest from the corner. She disengaged from the faceless enemy she was ruining, grabbed the sandbag to still it, and looked around its girth at the intersection of characters.

Jason scoffed, looked over his shoulder at Pennyworth. “Relax Penny. Nobody's getting harassed,” then looked at the boy, “are you, Featherweight?”

The camera in the boy’s hands slipped in suddenly nerveless fingers. He caught it. But barely. "I'm up for anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always use pads when sparring. Good Lord, boys!
> 
> For reference, Jason is cruiserweight and Dick is only super middleweight, 3 classes smaller. So when Jason "wants a real fight" it's because he's literally out of Dick's league. But Bruce is heavyweight, one weight class bigger than Jason.


	4. Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is smol and gay and Jason is a moody asshole.
> 
> Matchmaker: a person who arranges boxing matches

_Oh god_ thought Tim. _He thinks I’m a freak._ Tim didn’t actually get to hear what Jason thought of him because the man with tattoos Jason was propping up slumped suddenly. Jason caught him part way down and called to a girl Tim hadn’t noticed to get ice. Any trace of teasing was gone. Jason hastily solicited Tim to help move the other man. Between them they hefted the body onto a low bench and Jason tried to rouse him. The girl materialized with the ice and an older man from an office, door ajar, wanted to know _what the hell was going on out there._

“Fucking lightweight passed out,” growled Jason but Tim saw the shadow of fear and remorse in his eyes.

The young man was not hard to revive, even in his condition, and turned out to be a real talker Tim found. Jason had disappeared shortly after he came to, so Tim felt obligated to watch the concussed patient. He was nursing his face with a bag of ice when he introduced himself as Dick. Dick seemed under the impression he was friends with Jason, when he said, “I’m his friend,” but Jason seemed to reappear only to throw Dick dark looks the more Dick chatted amicably with Tim.

“So, how do you know Jason?” asked Dick after he gave Tim a brief run down of the place.

Tim cleared his throat and tried to speak quietly but the girl Cass had gone to clean up, the one called Ted had cleared out and Tim and Dick were alone. Their voices carried eerily. "I don't really. I just saw his last fight and thought..." Tim glanced over his shoulder and just caught Jason ducking into what looked like, from across the room, a janitorial closet. "I just thought he, I mean it looked cool. I'd never seen a match before."

" _Well_ ," said Dick grinning broadly. "You've already met the coolest people. Well, not Babs." He looked bleary eyed and Tim wondered if Dick was going to pass out again.

"Who?"

Dick assured Tim there were other boxers, including the woman of his dreams one reputedly stunning Barbara Gordon, but Tim would have to stick around to meet them. He _would_ stick around, wouldn’t he? Dick insisted they never got visitors and could really use some fresh blood around the place. But Tim was starting to think showing up was a really bad idea the fourth time he caught Jason glaring at him from multiple far away vantages. Dick even tried dangling the promise of a pretty blonde girl about Tim’s age but Tim politely said, “she doesn’t sound like my type.”

Dick’s eyes flickered to Jason. Not subtly. Tim also looked at Jason not subtly who looked really pissed. “Fuck you,” he hissed at Dick or Tim or both— Tim couldn’t say— and stalked into the locker room by the sound of the repeatedly banging metal doors.

“Don’t mind him.”

“Actually,” said Tim awkwardly. He turned his camera over in his hands. “He’s why I’m here.”

Dick cocked a loaded eyebrow at Tim.

“I was at the Sionis match, like I mentioned,” Tim said to the camera. “Taking photos. I’m a photographer. I mean, I want to be. I just haven’t done much sports photography. I’m not very good. A lot of the action shots didn’t turn out.” Tim peaked up at Dick from under his lashes to gauge the man’s reaction. Dick only smiled knowingly, conspiratorially.

“I’m sure Jason would love to pose for you,” he said superfluously loudly. The man in question stormed back into the main gym floor, this time half naked and barefoot, still holding the muscle tank he’d just stripped out of.

“Mind your own damn business, Dickshit!” growled Jason through clenched teeth. Then he rounded on Tim. “What the hell are you even doing here, Feathers?”

Tim stood and approached Jason who eyed him warily. Tim put out a hand. “I’m Tim Drake,” he said politely. "Can I shoot you?"

"Excuse me?"

Dick spluttered on a choked off laugh.

"I mean—” Tim turned very red. “Like, a photo shoot. Can I take your picture?"

"You already did, Fucking Shit. I saw you at the match. And, besides, I'm a boxer. I'm not a model."

"You could be,” said Tim in a rush.

"What?" asked Jason.

"What?" asked Tim.

Jason exhaled heavily and knuckled his forehead. "Look, Kid. I’m too busy to have you fucking around under foot. Go home.”

"You don't have to pay me. And I won't sell them. I just want to practice action shots. You can train normally. I won't get in the way."

Jason looked at Tim critically. But whatever he was looking for or not Tim couldn’t say. He just stood his ground and tried not to say anything stupid again. But he must have passed the test. “Whatever,” mumbled Jason. “Ask the old shit in the office. But he’ll never let you.” Jason jabbed a thumb over his shoulder an older gentleman Tim recognized as Jason's handler from the match. “But if do you stick around stay out of my way." 

“You won’t even notice me.”

“Too damn late," muttered Jason and he knocked Tim off balance after slamming Tim’s shoulder walking passed. Tim reoriented and rubbed his shoulder all the way to the indicated office, ruminating on Jason's parting words. He could find no clear meaning in them. A glance showed Alfred Pennyworth was on phone call. So Tim skimmed yellowed news clippings framed on the wall while he waited for Pennyworth. The stories spanned decades and featured various prizefighters.

_Bruce ‘The Knight’ Wayne beats Ra’s ‘The Demon’ Al Ghul in Upset_

_Barbara ‘Million Dollar’ Gordon Crushes Fated Rival Harley ‘Darling’ Quinzel_

_Dick ‘Stripes’ Grayson Takes Division from Harvey ‘Two-Strikes’ Dent_

_Cass ‘The Shadow’ Cain Knocks Out_ _Sandra ‘Shiva’ Wu-San_

Tim smiled warmly. It was hard not too the way the men and women looked in the photos. Glorious victory looked a lot like bruises, bloody noses and split lips, but there was life in the flush of triumph on each of their faces. The last news clipping hung framed on the wall was of Red Hood in the ring.  _Jason 'Red Hood' Todd Defends Title from Promising Waylon 'Killer' Jones._ Alfred Pennyworth was pictured at his side, holding Jason’s arm aloft and fiercely proud. Just like the other night. Uproarious spectators exhibited devastation, fury and, most of them, overcome with elation. The small girl Cass was in the wide shot, standing ringside and looking on with an understated expression that might have been love. Tim felt a petty stab of jealousy.

The door of the office hauled open and Alfred Pennyworth stuck his head out. He eyed Tim significantly. “Yes?”

“Do you mind if I take some photos of Ja— of one or, or some your fighters?”

“One grand,” said Alfred shrewdly.

“Oh, I’m not charging you anything. I just need a model for—”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Pay _me_ one grand and you can take any kind of photos of Todd you want.”

Tim struck out a hand. “Deal,” he said cheerily and Alfred shook on it.

“Are. You. Fuck. Ing. Kid. Ding. Me. You. Son. Of. A. Bitch. I. Am. Not. A. Cheap. Whore.” 

“Trust me,” chimed Tim, turning on the spot to eye Jason who lurked behind him. “You’re not that cheap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barbara Gordon first appeared in Detective Comics #359 "The Million Dollar Debut of Batgirl!" Hence her boxing name "Million Dollar". I think everyone else's is pretty straightforward/maybe too on-the-nose.


	5. Slug Nutty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes friends on accident and Jason tries to make up for being an ass by being an ass.
> 
> Slug Nutty: a colloquial term for 'punch drunk' where sufferers from cerebral concussion inflicted by past blows move as if drunk

After the money had traded hands Alfred tacked on the stipulation, to allay what he could of Jason’s fury, that the date and time of the photo shoot was up to Jason. Jason was still spitting bullets for days, according to Dick, who’d gotten Tim’s number and texted him updates. Actually, Dick had texted Tim all sorts of things, including invitations to dinner and group outings with other boxers from the ring. Tim did meet the blonde, Stephanie Brown, as pretty as promised, but it turned out he was still gay after all. When Stephanie heard about Alfred and Tim’s arrangement she wanted in and Barbara and Dick too. Tim blushed and apologized but he insisted he ‘didn’t have three grand more lying around’; the checkbook was in his other wallet.

“Alfred can fuck himself,” slurred Stephanie over her third drink. “He only said that because you,” she made a finger gun at Tim, “dress like an ironic J Crew model and smell like privilege.”

“Does privilege smell like Clive Christian 1872?”

Stephanie swirled her drink with her straw. “How much does a bottle of that cost?”

“I guess I don’t know.”

“Then, yes. That’s what privilege smells like.” The group had laughed roundly and each person started divvying up Tim’s free time. Dick had to translate for Barbara because Tim didn’t know ASL, but she had a charity fight coming up she hoped Tim would take photos of. Tim put something on the books with Stephanie and another fighter from their gym Kate to spar. By the time Tim could squeeze in Jason’s mulish insistence they meet before sunrise around everyone else’s shoots, nights out, homework and Tim’s classes, he hadn’t seen Jason in almost a month. So Tim had shown up at The Battering Cave at quarter to five with a venti caffeine cocktail and fresh hope he wouldn’t make things worse. Maybe he could even leave a favorable impression at the end of it.

It hadn’t started off so bad, either. Jason seemed mellow, maybe even contrite, and made awkward small chat while he stretched. Tim put his camera bag down and sipped his coffee watching Jason. “What do you call that?” asked Tim when Jason unwound a long thin strip of fabric.

“Wrist wrap,” said Jason offhandedly. Jason wrapped one wrist quickly and when he reached for the next wrap, he saw Tim’s interest and offered to show him how to do a correct wrap. After a brief demonstration he handed Tim the wrap.

“That’s not tight enough,” said Jason when Tim tried it out on Jason.

Tim unwound the sports tape with exasperation. For the fourth time. “You keep saying that.”

“You keep doing it wrong.” Tim started again but he’d barely wound across Jason’s course palm once before Jason waved him off. Tim scowled and scooted back with a huff. They were facing each other straddling one of the padded benches in the gym with Jason’s tape and gloves between them. Tim hadn’t had much of his coffee yet so it really grated on his nerves to hear Jason say, patronizingly, “it’s just like I showed you—”

“I know how to wrap it. I just don’t want to make it too tight.”

Jason arched one eyebrow that Tim swore he stole right off Alfred’s face. “You couldn’t if you tried, Featherweight.”

 _God he’s beautiful_. It was too bad Tim had the distinct impression the longer they spent together Jason really did hate him. Based on the prickles down Tim’s spine whenever Jason clipped a word or impatience smoldered just under the skin.

“Here. Let me do it on you.” Tim was still consumed by the spiraling downward gloom of _Jason hates me_ that he was startled to feel the rough touch of Jason’s fingers and palms around his. Jason's abrasive skin felt vital and warm to Tim who forgot himself in the sensation and bit his lower lip. Jason surely felt Tim’s tremble of surprise and looked at the other boy with curiosity. “What’s wrong?” asked Jason.

“What are you doing?”

“I was going to tie you up. Show you how I like it.”

Tim blinked at Jason. Several times. In stunned silence. He scrutinized Jason’s face but the blue eyes betrayed nothing; did Jason realize what he said? How it sounded? Was he teasing Tim or was just _maybe_ flirting with Tim? Jason blinked back at Tim impassively and waited while Tim's anxieties warred for dominance. Tim cleared his throat. “Okay. Show me how you like it.” _There!_ Tim was sure he saw some brightness flash behind Jason’s eyes for just the smallest moment. But then there was nothing. Just the casual interest of someone platonically demonstrating how to tie a wrist wrap.

Except there was nothing platonic about it.

Jason’s movements were slow and methodical, deliberately but tenderly brushing his rough fingers against Tim’s fingers and naked palm, gracing the rising pulse in his wrist. And there was surely intention in the exposure of his smooth neck where his head was slightly tilted, casting downward his thick lashes. He was speaking softly, through a small smile that made his one dimple glow in the dawn light filtering through the old glass windows. Saying something about anchoring the wrap against the thumb before weaving between the fingers, but he just kept looking at their skimming fingers like it was the only thing in the world.

“That way, your knuckles are protected from glancing blows—” Jason took Tim’s mostly wrapped wrist in both hands and raised it so close to his lips Tim tingled with the feeling of Jason’s minty breath on his skin. Close enough to kiss. But Jason only inspected his work up close and lowered Tim’s hand. He did not let it go though. Jason brushed his thumb across Tim’s knuckles. “—impact won’t spread and weaken them—” He kept talking but Tim had no idea what he was saying, tips or technical jargon maybe. Tim just bit his lip and tried to smother the urge to kiss the slope of Jason’s neck where the clavicle bowed from the way he was hunching over to match Tim. He was so big. But his hands worked so delicately, dichotomous to the scarring and abuse all over his body. _Damn_ thought Tim. _I’m gone_.

“—will protect your wrist from—”

“Kiss me,” said Tim very quietly.

Jason glanced up from his work. “Sorry?”

The man’s eyes were on him and so, so blue. Tim was scarlet instantaneously. “I said, ‘miss me.”

There was the faintest smirk under Jason’s mild smile. The sunlight was falling across his bare shoulders and dark hair and his dimple seemed to know it. “’Miss me’?” repeated Jason.

 _Every day._ “Y— yes.” Tim looked at his hand, cradled in Jason’s.

“That’s your solution when someone throws a punch at you? Just hope they’ll miss, you coward?”

Tim’s heart sank. Jason’s fingers weren’t cradling Tim’s. He was only taking a break from a technical demonstration to throw shade and tease Tim. “I’m not a coward.” A blush discolored Tim’s pale face from forehead to ears.

“Then what are you?”

 _Still falling for you, Asshole._ Sunlight spilt across Jason’s shoulders and on the crest of his pectorals when he straightened to stretch and roll his shoulders. Tim immediately felt the absence of Jason’s warmth on his hands. He hunched his shoulders, looked at the floor. “I’m just a photographer.”

“Is that another word for stalker?”

Tim’s romantic feelings for Jason were replaced immediately by feelings of wanting to punch Jason. He had the wherewithal to not to act on the impulse and said unequivocally, “I’m not a stalker.” Probably.

“Then are you, like, falling for me or some shit like that?”

Tim blanched. The blood rushed from his face so fast he felt lightheaded but he scrambled to arrange his face into something that wouldn’t betray him. Jason leaned back, propped on one arm and gestured dismissively with the other. “I figure it’s one or the other. No way a rich, soft prick like you keeps coming round a dump like this with a half ass excuse.” He made an air quote. “‘Practicing action shots’.”

Tim pursed his lips. Not sure whether to be humiliated or offended. He figured he could sort that out on his way home. He’d already gotten whole rolls of objectively stunning shots of Dick, Barbara and Stephanie mostly. But Kate and Cass were represented too. He’d long ago worked out the technical settings on his SLR Leicaflex SL2 for that sweet spot. There was no reason to hold Jason to an obligation he never wanted and Tim no longer needed. Tim lurched from the bench, scooped up his messenger bag with his 35mm and hitched it over his shoulder. He was on the point of turning to leave when Jason caught him by the wrist. It wasn’t hard but firm, imploring. Tim spun around and tried to pull away but his hand wouldn’t come.

Every second the sunlight brightened the gym a little more and it made the blue of Jason’s eyes look unreal. Tim meant to look down at his feet but on the way he noticed that Jason held the hand that was wrapped neatly with Jason’s tape. “Don’t— I only meant— I need you to…” mumbled Jason uncharacteristically softly.

“Oh, right.” Tim successfully pulled his wrist away or Jason let him go. Tim unwound the wrap a little haphazardly and tossed it onto the bench next to Jason’s gloves. “There.” Awkward silence hung between them until Tim cut it. “I can’t do the shoot today. I forgot—” Tim was on the point of saying something bogus like _I forgot I have class_ when there was a clatter at the entrance. It sounded remarkably like the door was jammed and an Englishman was cursing at it with thickly accented language so colorful Tim could tell Alfred was not a morning person either. That reminded Tim; he knelt and picked up his mostly untouched coffee from the floor beside the bench. “I should go,” he said finally.

“I know I’m an ass,” said Jason flatly.

“I knew I couldn’t be the first one to think it."

“I can be better.”

Tim made to respond but Alfred swore rather crudely outside and must have kicked or heaved his shoulder into the slab. The doors parted for him at last. There were a few more _bugger’s_ , _poxy shite’s_ and _Mary Mother of Christ’s_ for good measure. Then Jason and Tim together watched helplessly as the load Alfred was carrying slipped out of his arms and the really colorfully language resumed. Tim looked at Jason severely.

“Then be better. Don’t be a jerk.” Without a backward glance, Tim bolted to the doors and knelt to help Alfred. Tim caught a glance of Jason watching them pick up the empty files and the loose papers and the books and take them piecemeal to Alfred’s office. He noticed that Jason pretended like he wasn’t watching while he resumed stretching.


	6. Spar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's wingman is the weather and we find out he watches too many chick flicks.
> 
> Spar: exchange light blows by way of practice or demonstration

After working up the nerve for five days Jason approached Barbara when she showed up at the gym. She kissed his cheek, waved to Cass and Stephanie, smiled at Jason and put up her hair while Jason signed to her. _Do you have his number?_

Barbara smirked. _Whose number?_

_Come on._

_Are you going to apologize to him?_  

_It was a dumb joke._

_Alfred made it sound like you really hurt his feelings._

_Pennyworth doesn't know what he's talking about._

Following much wheedling and a sullen promise to apologize to The Kid, Barbara texted Tim’s number to Jason. After working up the nerve for another five days Jason tried to make nice with Tim, who turned out to use too many emojis and not enough grammar. Jason talked around something resembling, “Grayson showed me some of the photos you’ve been taking and you’re not terrible and I would like it if we could reschedule and I promise I won’t be an ass this time.” It was as good as Tim should have expected and he seemed to accept the apology for what it was.

The second time Tim and Jason scheduled a block of time Jason didn’t care when or where so Tim arranged for them to meet downtown for a night shoot. Tim hadn’t even started talking Jason through concept when they were caught in a downpour so cliché Jason was sure God was fucking with him. Or, perhaps, sending an olive branch. Jason had seen a chick flick or five so he played along and suggested they ‘go back to his apartment. It wasn’t far’. Tim started to say, “no, it’s okay—” but, right on queue, lightning cracked across the moody sky and Tim asked, stuffing his expensive camera under cover, “how far exactly?”

The torrent of rain berating Jason on the motorcycle ride home was nothing. Considering he didn’t even have a coat. He’d pressed his leather, armored jacket on Tim because it was big enough to blanket Tim and his camera bag. No, Jason was distracted from the misery of the situation by obsessing over how damn lucky the situation was and analyzing at which act of the chick flick the motorcycle would bring them to. Unfortunately it seemed like Jason and Tim’s entire relationship— or not relationship— was circling the drain of the first awkward conflict before one or both of them had feelings for the other. But Jason did have feelings. His favorite of the moment was the feeling of Tim’s arms tensing around his abdomen and how Tim pressed his cheek against Jason’s spine. Jason felt very warm in spite of the deluge.

Jason dismounted first and turned to help Tim down, lifting Tim from under the arms like a cumbersome life-size toy. It was actually harder than Jason had expected. The kid was so tiny, smaller than he’d even expected until holding Tim in his arms in real life; Jason had nailed that from across the gym on day one, but the sopping leather jacket and equipment bag about doubled Tim’s weight. It took Jason a little by surprise and they tumbled back into the brick wall. Tim was still clinging to Jason with his little hands and one leg was wound around Jason’s thigh for support. Jason wasn’t turned on at all.

Tim unhooked his coiled leg and slid off Jason’s thigh. He hitched the camera bag nervously and his eyes darted about into the wet black like a harried animal. Jason tentatively put an arm around Tim’s narrow shoulders and walked him the rest of the way. It took Jason a minute to jiggle his key in the deadbolt just right. But even when the lock turned over the doorframe was disinclined to allow the front door to budge. Not unlike the doors at the Battering Cave. _Not unlike my feelings_. He laughed nervously at himself, not the scenario, bit his bottom lip, looked around the flooding streets, at his window, at Tim, anywhere else that wasn’t Tim.

"Door's jammed,” said Jason needlessly. “Come on." He jimmied his own window open with a switchblade he produced spontaneously.

Tim smothered his shock almost perfectly. "What about the alarm?" asked Tim.

Jason stared at him puzzled, leg halfway through the opening. "What alarm?"

Tim looked up and down the street for emphasis and whispered loudly, "this is not a good neighborhood. Don't you have an alarm?"

Jason laughed indulgently, patronizing. "Ha! Sure. Nice one, Featherweight." Jason ducked his head and swiveled inside, still snickering softly. He accepted the camera bag Tim pressed inside and gave Tim some room to crawl through the window. Taking the opportunity to watch Tim slip into his apartment without risk of tipping his interest.


	7. In Chancery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is not horrible, actually really adorable, Tim doesn't butcher flirting so bad and there's even a little fluff. (Congratulations for making it this far.)
> 
> In Chancery: a combatant's head held under his opponent's arm

Jason’s couch looked stable enough but Tim would find when he sat down on it later it was wont to swallow its occupants and didn’t even face a television. Tim wondered what Jason did all day. Wondered what they were supposed to do until the storm passed.  _I can think of a few things._

In hopes he would stop thinking of those things and nothing biological would happen, Tim looked around the apartment in earnest. The carpet was threadbare, the laminate cracked. The wallpaper yellowed and peeled away where it wasn't taped back down. Tim looked away when he realized that Jason was judging Tim judging his wallpaper. He alighted instead on what looked like Jason's most extravagant luxury, a tall and wide crowded bookcase. Tim admired the breadth of genre and publication dates, skimming for titles he knew. On the whole the collection was a little high brow for Tim but he stroked the spine on a worn copy of Anna Karina.

"You can change in my room. Just pick anything that looks warm." Tim assumed the bedroom was down the hallway because it was the only place to go. Tim found the door at the end of it across from the bathroom, which was bare and smelt faintly of cleaning vinegar. For some reason he'd expected Jason's apartment to be cluttered or sloppy, manly and chaotic like his attitude. But even that wasn't true about Jason. Not really. Tim discovered Jason's room to be worn but tidy in a way that was almost charming. The necessity of clothes made the room seem fuller. Jason didn't have a closet so all his things were on a rack like a department store. Shoeboxes under the hems of his pants must have stored what didn't belong on a hanger. He wondered, just for a wild moment, if Jason meant him to change into his underwear too. It was ridiculous to think and Tim rebuked himself. It wouldn't fit anyway. Tim rifled through the sweatpants, shirts and gym hoodies but he could hardly imagine himself looking like anything but drowning in any of it. Tim wondered why it mattered what he looked like. Jason wasn’t going to care, was he?

Tucked near the end were a few pieces Tim didn't cringe imagining himself in. He replaced the clothes on the hangers with his own sopping ones. The relief was almost instantaneous. At least, he no longer felt like the flame of his life was doused forever. Tim found a mirror hanging on the back of Jason’s door and checked himself out. He wore a thin wool base layer shirt and a snug zippered running jacket with cozy thumbholes. It accentuated his waist and shoulders, broad for his size. Next to it was a pair of matching slim-legged workout pants that looked a little like women’s leggings that made his butt and hips look amazing. Jason wasn’t going to care. Tim distracted himself from the disappointment pooling in his gut by eyeing smaller details around the room. There were more books on the nightstand, an unlikely looking laptop propped against the bed, cheap headphones and a cat he hadn't noticed looking as ragged as everything else. She eyed Tim warily and he eyed her back.

A soft knock on the door threatened the staring contest. Jason looked between the contestants and smiled when he realized what must have been happening. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his rippling arms. He had shed his soaked shirt and his pants were unzipped and only hanging on by clinging to his muscled hips. It almost successfully distracted Tim. "Don't bother, Feathers. She cheats."

Tim might have won anyway out of raw determination  _not_ to ogle Jason. Jason shrugged and pressed into the room, which should have been impossible. The doorway was small and he was broad and tall and glorious in the very corner of Tim's eye. Jason bumped Tim to rifle through his clothes rack. He did again shrugging into a muscle shirt, thigh to Tim's butt. Tim squirmed behind him reflexively, but trying to make room moving as little as possible, resolutely staring at the cat.

It was the light brush of Jason’s thigh across the outer curve of Tim’s hip when Jason stepped out of his wet pants and then the second time when he stepped into dry flannel shorts. Tim lost it. He tensed and blinked repeatedly. The cat looked smug and buried her head.

“Cheater,” spat Tim.

“I told you she cheats.”

“No, you!” Tim turned in place and jabbed a finger at Jason’s muscled arm and it made his finger hurt like hell. “You bumped me on purpose.”

The corner of Jason’s mouth quirked and there was humor in his dancing eyes. Sort of like the first time Jason spoke to Tim. He’d remember Jason leaning on the ropes and smiling pleasantly forever. He didn’t even need a picture. “I would never,” Jason said with solemnity. Then he added impulsively, “if you like those you can have them.” Jason nodded at Tim’s person, meaning the clothes Tim had picked out.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Cass won’t mind. She said they’re intolerable.”

“What?”

“She’s picky about fiber content. Has to be butter soft. The nylon feels like sandpaper. Apparently.”

“These are Cass’?” Tim drummed up images of her taller, leaner, prettier body. Her short but soft hair, cool grace and expressive brown eyes. She was a great athlete, everyone said so, and seemed smart if quiet. She signed with Barbara as fluently as Jason and even Alfred adored her without qualification. Tim could fill none of her shoes except, maybe, her running shoes.

“Well. Yeah. Dipshit. Can you imagine my ass squeezing in that?”

 _I am now._ “Oh. I just— didn’t realize she kept clothes here. Is that, are you two like, a thing?”

Jason snorted. “What? No. She’s my  _sister._ ”

 _Oh thank god_ thought Tim. “The resemblance is uncanny,” he said. The tone struggled between uncertainty and sarcasm.

“Foster sister,” said Jason impatiently. “I mean it though. Take the clothes. You look good. I mean, like they fit good. Fit well. Or whatever.”

Tim shifted his weight, suddenly feeling very modest about the women’s leggings Jason had complimented unsolicited without any trace of irony. The tiniest pricks on pink in Jason’s cheeks made Tim think he really, really meant it. Or he was already catching a cold from the exposure.'

“So,” Tim crossed his arms. “What do you do for fun?”

It turned out Jason only had the one hobby besides boxing, so he brewed them both tea and they sat down on the couch while Jason read to Tim. Tim fiddled with the settings of his Leicaflex and occasionally snapped pictures of Jason when he made funny faces doing the voices of the characters until he slipped into sleep. Tim was on one end of Jason’s yawning coach knee to knee while Jason’s reading voice on the other end got softer and quieter and Tim finally nodded off the same time Jason dropped the book. It was not, however, how Tim woke up.

Tim woke in Jason's arms. Or, to be precise, trapped in them. It was not as uncomfortable as it sounded though. Rather like a desperate hug. Like one of them was leaving and it was all Jason could do to stay together. But Tim wasn't going anywhere except the bathroom. He put his shoulder and right arm into Jason's elbow to lever the bigger man off but Jason's left arm was tucked under Tim's chest where their fingers were threaded together, palm to opisthenar. Like some kind of couple.

Tim wasn’t turned on at all. He didn’t even want to kiss Jason’s fingers. Or move at all. Ever again.

Except to use the bathroom; Tim sighed and slid smoothly out from under Jason who immediately murmured and rolled fitfully onto his other side but didn’t wake. After relieving himself, Tim examined the evidence of the night’s negligence under the harsh light of a naked bulb. His eyes were red and raw from the unexpected, extended wear of his contact lenses. “Damn,” said Tim dully to the mirror before beginning to paw quietly through Jason’s bathroom for eye drops.

What he did find was lots of thick bruise concealer, every style of bandage, gauze and topical cleanser, antibiotic ointment, a sampling of the best over-the-counter and prescription painkillers and an assortment of splints and braces. For good measure, he even looked through Jason’s bedroom nightstand. That’s where Tim kept  _his_  eye drops. Incidentally, he found nothing that suggested Jason wore contacts, had dry eye or was sexually active.

Tim weighed the significance of the total absence of condoms, lube, toys or visual media while starting the coffee maker and roaming around Jason's apartment. He'd not gotten far or been able to process much before Jason's one long hallway gave Tim pause. There was an assortment of photos he’d not noticed in the dark last night. Jason and Dick goofing off over recent years. A handful with Barbara. More of the three of them. Almost two decades worth of Jason and Cass. And few with Stephanie. Some with someone Tim hadn’t met, but assumed was Bruce by the presence of a kid he’d heard Dick mention. The wall was crowded with every kind of smile and rabbit ears and cheek kisses and one-arm hugs, ribbing and laughing and life. He was only a ways through the wall when the coffee maker chirped. Tim returned to his spot with his mug. The next picture was a group selfie of Tim, Dick and Barbara at The Tower, minor-admitting dance club popular with Tim's crowd, from Barbara’s phone. She must have sent it to Jason. Whom must have liked it enough to bother getting it printed. And frame it. It was promising. Or a little creepy. Tim bit his lip.

"What's that smell?" Jason rubbed his eye and leaned against the lintel.

"Coffee," said Tim reverentially. "I found it in your cupboard." Jason looked lost. "You have a coffee maker. In your kitchen?"

"Oh." Jason glanced toward his kitchen with surprise.

"Go back to sleep. You look like you need the rest,” said Tim before he yawned himself.

Jason rubbed one bare arm with the palm of another absently. "Can't. I got cold all of a sudden.”

"But you’re so hot,” blurted Tim. He both meant that Jason was attractive, and that Tim had slept warmer on the couch with Jason than he normally did at home under blankets. He braced for the derisive snort or displeased frown or callous remark, but Jason only smiled mildly.

"You look warm too,” he said quietly. Jason looked at the wall of photos too, at some longer than others. “What are you doing?"

Tim glanced at Jason, at his bare legs, muscled bulk, the crest of his ear, the contusion on his ribs showing even through the thin fabric. Then back at the pictures. "Getting to know you.”

“Like what you see?”

Tim bid his time sipping coffee and looking at the photo wall and not looking at Jason. “Mostly. Increasingly. Yes,” whispered Tim.

Jason didn’t look uncomfortable or flattered. He looked neutral or distracted. It was worse than being bluntly rejected and kicked out. Tim ate a modest breakfast with Jason and thanked him for the clothes and the refuge but he really had to get to class and maybe they could reschedule that photo shoot and did Taxis come this far into the ghetto? Tim had used a different word than _ghetto_ , but Jason saw right through the euphemism. 

Jason snorted. "Want a ride to school?”

“I should swing by home to change first.”

 “I’m not in a hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm miserable at fluff. Actually had to do research and poll experienced fanfic readers. But petty conflict and misunderstandings come so much easier. It/I get better though! I Promise.


	8. Outclassed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has anxiety and his pride is his worst enemy. 
> 
> Outclassed: taking undo punishment from an opponent, as determined by referee, ending the match

“Shouldn’t you change first?” asked Tim. “I mean, you definitely don’t have to. Not for me. I don’t mind. But it might be, like, cold. But if you don’t want— you look _great_ in— are those boxers? And can we still call those wife beaters? I don’t think that’s very… tasteful.” Tim licked his bottom lip and Jason pretended like he didn’t see it. And pretended it didn’t make his stomach flip.

“Maybe ‘ribbed cotton tank’?” said Jason, more question than answer. He’d never thought twice about the cheap white undershirts he bought in bulk but he would describe what he was wearing as a threadbare, ribbed cotton tank. Thin enough his bruise looked like another stain. And he _was_ wearing a pair of faded red and black striped boxers.

“No, that sounds like a type of shirt. I think those are actually boxers.” Tim seemed to be staring at Jason’s boxers, but Jason was probably wrong.

Jason put his key back on the hook by his door. “Right. Yes. I’ll be right back.” In his bedroom it seemed like all the sweatpants had holes or frayed waistbands. And all the hoodies had cheap, cracked or peeling screen-printed Battering Cave logos or outdated rock band artwork. Why was everything he owned shit? He might have scrounged jeans and a tee shirt from his laundry basket but Fleabag was grooming her ass on the top of the mound she’d clearly slept on all night. Jason frowned and grabbed at the nicest pair of oversized, decade old work out sweats that mostly coordinated and were once name brand. He was just zipping up the hoodie when he saw Tim’s clothes hanging up in place of Cass’. He must have hung them up to dry last night.

A khaki pair of Adriano’s Goldshmieds— Jason didn’t know the label but it sounded foreign and expensive— and a navy Thom Browne polo— also likely outrageously priced. It looked like something a fabulously wealthy Ivy League college bully would wear in a movie if it had a lavish budget and maybe a boat scene.

Jason leaned into the clothes and sniffed experimentally. They smelt a little like natural musk and a little like citrus, lavender and herbs, maybe some wood. Nothing had smelt so fine. Jason inhaled more and reflexively closed his eyes and smiled dreamily. Then he imagined Tim’s rich movie character sipping peach schnapps on a yacht with fancy friends and wished he had not offered to drive Tim home. He had no business riding a twenty-year-old bike in sweatpants into some fucking Stepford neighborhood.

Jason looked at Tim’s clothes again. It would be wrong of to forget to remind Tim about them. But if he did, he could call Tim up later with a convenient excuse to meet again soon, to return them. It was childish, really. But Jason often had poor judgment and worse impulse control.

He met Tim waiting patiently at the front door in Cass’ pants and fitted workout jacket, hair sleep-tousled in it’s burgeoning pony tail and his camera bag over his shoulder. Jason repressed a nervous smile. He put his keys in his hoodie pocket with an embarrassed glance at his broken door, jimmied his window open and slid out they way they’d come in. Tim followed him and emerged with an anxious expression. The daylight did not seem to improve his attitude toward Jason’s part of town. “Come on,” said Jason. Feeling an unwelcome chill stir inside.

It abated some watching Tim put on Jason’s motorcycle helmet and feeling the desperate cling of Tim’s body against Jason’s. He _knew_ it was only because he was going seventy in a forty but he _imagined_ it was because Tim wanted to hold Jason as much as Jason wanted to hold Tim.

His warm feelings diminished again when Tim told him at a light to take the coastal rode until a left on Mountain Drive. He thought about Tim on that yacht and, with a sting, the way Tim had looked at Jason’s shitty apartment. And how me moved through the Battering Cave with his camera. With a kind of tourist’s awe. Even Tim knew he didn’t belong in Jason’s world. Then Jason thought of Tim going home to the wealthiest neighborhood in Gotham to tell his friends about all the poor, brutish strangers he took photos of in the dirty city.

By the time Jason bent around the last wind in the road at his absurd speed, his mood was quite sour. He dropped sixth gear and coasted to the gate in neutral, finally stopping and bracing his Super Blackbird with the kickstand. A gothic wrought iron fence loomed over Jason. The metaphor was not lost on Jason.

Tim shimmied off the oversized bike and put up his visor to hail the attendant. The best-dressed security guard Jason had ever seen leaned out of the window and asked how Tim was and waved to Jason perfunctorily but squinted suspiciously at him. Jason tried to look like a rich boy who was only slumming it for the day, but he didn’t know what kind of face rich boys made. Tim came back to Jason and hooked his leg back over Jason’s bike and pressed the helmet in between Jason’s shoulder blades. The gates rolled away. Jason saluted the attendant whose misgivings about Jason clearly deepened in the cut of his frown.

The gated community had roughly ten mansions per Jason’s casual notice. None were so big as Bruce’s but he lived even further out of town. The Drake mansion was at the end of the drive with a little larger yawn than its neighbors. It wasn’t the towering castle Jason had imagined but there was a maid who opened the door for Tim before Jason had even cut the engine. Tim dismounted Jason’s bike one last time and hoisted his camera bag awkwardly. He pulled off Jason’s helmet and when Jason didn’t take it, Tim put it on Jason’s seat.

“Um, thanks,” said Tim. “That CBR is something.” Jason tried to pretend he wasn’t surprised or immensely pleased Tim knew the model. “God!” exclaimed Tim, grinning broadly. “You can ride me any time.” He blanched. “Drive! You can _drive_ me any time.”

“How about Saturday?” said Jason with a shy smile, much to his own surprise.

“Damn.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Dinner at the yacht club. Dad’s friend’s retirement party.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Tim ground his shoe against the paved driveway. “But maybe you could call me Sunday.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Jason.

He did not call Tim Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back after a hiatus. The harder I tried to stick to the story, the more it broke my heart. Boys with feelings who pretend they don't have feelings gives me feelings.
> 
> Don't let fear keep you from happiness!


	9. Weigh In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim rallies from his apparent rejection and finds validation with emotionally accessible people.
> 
> Weigh In: to be weighed before a match

“You should come by sometime,” said Dick cheerfully as they walked out of the gym together. Tim craned his neck to look up at Dick. He had three new rolls of film of Stephanie to show for his latest appointment at the boxing gym; to go into his cache of undeveloped photos of Battering Cave fighters. So he couldn’t figure why Dick made it sound like he’d never been.  _None of Jason so far, though_ thought Tim miserably. In fact, he hadn’t seen much of Jason at all, even though Tim had been so careful to swing by during Jason’s usual practice times. Nothing but an accidental glance from Jason, who acted like he hadn’t noticed Tim immediately after, since he’d dropped Tim off that one morning. Tim’s heart sank.

Dick ran his fingers through his damp hair and ruffled his locks artfully like he was being videotaped.  _Jason’s hair looked better._ Dick looked down at Tim and smiled charmingly. The first thing Tim thought was  _it’s not as good as Jason’s smile._

“I come by lots,” was what Tim actually said.

“I mean to actually box. Not just look at people doing it.”

It felt to Tim suspiciously like a razz that was supposed to sound lighthearted but really wasn’t. Tim withheld a scowl at Dick’s otherwise friendliness. “I’m not  _looking._ It’s called photography, not voyeurism.”

“You said it, not me!” Dick laughed without guile. It was a genuine, clean sound given freely. In contrast Jason parted grudgingly with his laughs or they were artificial. Tim still preferred Jason’s.

“But, seriously, Babs could show you the basics. She’s a great teacher. Right, Cass?”

Dick’s attention passed right over Tim to their soundless companion, Tim was alarmed to find at his side. She was every bit the shadow people called her. Cass responded by looking at Dick, then at Tim. There was a murky depth in her brown eyes that more closely resembled learning, or judging. It was a steady, unflinching pierce but the color swirled with interest. It both comforted Tim and made his hair stand on end. He remembered checking himself out in Jason’s mirror wearing her pants and flushed. Cass nodded without averting her eyes from Tim’s. She made a peculiar gesture with her hands and pressed three fingers to Tim’s chest. Tim looked away, back at Dick.

“I don’t recognize that sign.” It was no big thing. Tim knew very few signs and the ones he did, he frequently mixed up. Even though he’d picked up very little comprehension, he could still tell that what Cass had just done was  _different._

“It’s not. I don’t think. More like, ‘together’.” Dick smiled cheerily. “She likes you, don’t you Cass?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. Cass’ endorsement was enough.

Tim said, “okay, sure. I’ll think about it,” but Dick was already chasing down Barbara to set up an appointment. She looked pleased and signed what Tim understood to mean something like,  _it’ll be fun_ to Tim, who responded with a stiff, well-rehearsed  _thank you._

So a few days later Tim crossed the threshold without a lens for the first time. And, for the first time, almost felt like he belonged. Barbara was in the office with Alfred when he got there so he dawdled by the ring corner where Dinah and Cass were sparring. Dinah was taller and broader with harder punches— when she could land one. Cass coursed through air like parting water. With a serenity that looked rather more like a prayer than exercise. When it was over Dinah was on her back and Cass daubed her forehead with a towel Stephanie offered her. Kate helped Dinah out of the ring before she climbed in herself with gloves to avenge her friend.

Tim watched them for a time until Stephanie dragged him to a sandbag. “Lazy Bones,” she said and asked him what he knew about boxing.

“Very little,” said Tim. Stephanie had lots of tips and suggestions for Tim who was glassy eyed from the start and asked her what the difference was between a jab and an uppercut.

She must have thought Tim was joking because she said sarcastically, "well, a jab is what you say when you tease someone because they’re an idiot who doesn’t know shit about shit.”

Tim eyed her heavily. “I know shit.”

“Bull,” said Stephanie and she demonstrated a superb, but constrained, jab at Tim’s chin. He cursed her and rubbed the afflicted area.

“Just not about boxing,” he amended.

“Or subtlety,” she said with a mischievous smile. “You haven’t asked about Jason in a while.”

Barbara had the good sense to step in at that point. She tapped Stephanie on the shoulder and raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward Stephanie's abandoned free weights.  _Alright. Move along, Kid_  it seemed to say. Stephanie  _tsk'd_  and wished Tim luck with Hard Ass Bab. Tim thought her hard ass looked objectively pretty nice from where he was standing. Stephanie was not wrong however. She had him sweating in minutes before they’d even touched equipment. Barbara would perform a clean stretch or move and critique Tim’s imitation. When he thought they might be done with great relief she only went to get a jump rope.

Tim had thought of himself as generally athletic until that afternoon. He was rather discouraged to discover he was skinny and enthusiastic, but not toned. It was no surprise then to find out Tim was also terrible at jumping in place and twirling his hands. Tim had not jumped rope since he was nine. Stephanie laughed at his attempt good-naturedly. 

Barbara smiled encouragingly. He was picking up the signs for  _good job_ and  _one more time._ But his coordination only deteriorated the harder he tried to perform well for Barbara. Tim persisted. If Jason had thought Tim looked good in those yoga pants before, Tim was hell bent on looking amazing in them next time. Whenever that was going to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've been working through chapters 8 through 11 for months now, I decided to get over my fears and post them. Being mostly complete, they'll be up within the next couple days. Sorry for irregular posting! Thanks for hanging in there. It means everything.


	10. Shadow Boxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason checks out Tim and resents Dick for noticing. Or, perhaps, himself for indulging in feelings.
> 
> Shadow Boxing: sparring with an imaginary opponent

That was how Jason saw Tim when he ducked through the rusty lintel a little later: arms bared wearing a wet, white and clinging crew neck shirt. His shorts were fitted on his butt like for cycling or getting laid and his little feet were agile, his whole body tensing and loosening as he became aquatinted with Barbara’s idea of warming up.  _The poor fuck._  Grayson bumped Jason's shoulder with his. They were of a height but Jason had two weight classes on him; Grayson did not move Jason an inch. The pressure did get Jason's attention however. "What?" he said, turning his face toward Grayson but not his eyes. His eyes roved over Tim and the cute fold in his brow from exertion and concentration.

"He’s so damn skinny,” said Grayson. "And short as hell.” Jason responded eventually with an inarticulate sound that might have been affirming, or might have been a poor demonstration of active listening. Grayson went on, "at first I didn't think that was your type. But he’s… good. Smart, generous and kind. Earnest. Opposites do attract after all."

Jason unslung his workout bag and made like he was rustling through it for something. Barbara had Tim doing squats. Jason never did find what he was looking for.

"Damn, Todd.” Dick whistled theatrically. “You’ve got it bad."

Jason felt his gut tighten. Tim’s form was poor enough Barbara put her hands on his hips and manually lowered him to the right depth. Tim winced and laughed, a pretty, sweet sound Jason could hear over the general din. Jason barely tore his eyes away. "What's up?" he asked Grayson insouciantly.

"Never mind." Grayson’s eyes heavily rolled as he collected his things. "Just don't let Alfred see you making those eyes at Tim.”

"I'm not making anything at anyone. Miserable old bat."

Grayson playfully jabbed Jason’s arm. "Hey, don't talk about Alfred that way."

Jason jabbed Grayson’s arm back, only harder. "I was talking about you, Birthday Boy. Where are we going this weekend?"

Resuming his packing, Grayson was thoughtful, throwing a towel around his neck. "ACE?"

"That place blows."

Grayson reached behind his back, threaded his fingers and popped his shoulders. "The Tower?"

"Gay as shit."

Grayson unwrapped his limbs, knocked his head side to side and his neck popped too in a couple places. Then he eyed Jason shrewdly and said quietly, "so are you.”

Jason punched Grayson. It wasn't the kind of punch you do when you box. It was the kind you do when you're emotional and playing dirty. Grayson narrowly blocked the second one. It wasn't the kind of block you do when you box. It was the kind you do when your best friend has thirty pounds on you and something of a temper. Their scuffle was brief but intense and ended with Jason on his feet and Dick staggering for his. Pennyworth hurled expletives at Jason from the office while cupping the speaker on his landline. As if it would prevent his caller from overhearing. Jason glared at the bystanders in turns until they looked away, unless they pretended like they hadn’t been watching. Like Tim did.

"I want to go to The Island,” said Grayson finally, bent double and chest heaving. He straightened and smeared a trickle of blood from his nose when he tried to wipe it with the back of his hand. Jason didn’t say anything about it.

All he said was, "they have shit booze and worse music."

"Well thank god it's  _my_  birthday.” Grayson daubed under his nose, saw the trace of blood, frowned.

"I'm not driving."

"Good. I was planning on making it to my next birthday too." Grayson ducked in front of a mirror to rub out the last trace of their fight before he walked away.

But not toward the door. Toward Barbara and Tim. The pair broke off from the drills Barbara had Tim doing who looked relieved and chugged water. Grayson signed to Barbara. Jason did not think much of it. When he was done watching Tim swallow water, Jason felt thirsty. But when Jason heard Tim’s clear alto say, "this Saturday?" Jason's heart lurched. He forgot himself. "Yeah, sure. I can go. Sounds fun. Thanks, Dick."

Dick cast a severe look at Jason on his way out and mouthed  _be nice._ Jason bristled. He’d been nothing but nice to Tim. Sure, he hadn’t called Tim even though he said he would. Nor responded to Tim’s casual inquiries about rescheduling that photo shoot. Nor answered when Tim asked if Jason had another fight coming up.

Jason chewed the inside of his cheek and clipped his speed bag on the hook furthest from Tim and facing the opposite direction.

So he could watch Tim throw his first tentative punches in the floor to ceiling mirror.


	11. Dive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim decides to get over Jason. 
> 
> Dive: a feigned knockout, as a tactical move or to lose intentionally

When the doorbell rang Tim slung his overnight bag across his chest and opened the front door. He was a trifle surprised Barbara was waiting wearing something small and tight and shiny with matching platform shoes like strippers wore. “Hi,” he said and awkwardly signed the same. He thought he’d done it wrong when Barbara squinted at him. She pulled her phone from somewhere on her person and texted someone; Tim’s phone vibrated in his pocket. She’d sent _is that what you're wearing? Why do you have that bag?_ Tim shifted his weight. He was wearing khaki shorts, boat shoes and a blue polo.

"Dick said we’re—" Tim paused, fidgeting under her expectant look, "—going to—" his voice climbed higher with each hesitant word, "—an island?" Barbara laughed, pushed Tim backward through his doorway and closed the door behind them. She texted Tim again.

 _Paradise Island is just a club_.

"Oh," said Tim. He dumped his airplane carryon bag on the marble floor. "Guess I don't need this. Please don't tell anyone."

Barbara smiled conspiratorially, stowed her phone and roamed into the foyer at large. Tim wanted to say, “let’s go,” and get the inevitable discomfort of a nightclub underway. The Tower was one thing, more food and live bands (with friendly boys) than dancing and exotic entertainers. But he'd never even heard of Paradise Island. It sounded scandalous. After a brief perusal, Barbara looked at Tim shrewdly and waved at his person. Tim made a confused face. She said out loud, slurring a little, and spelt with her hands, emphatically, "C. L. U. B."

She pointedly eyed Tim’s clothes that time, and Tim, seeing her point at last, went back to his closet. Dogged by Barbara, without protest. Barbara settled for putting Tim in chinos and a button up after roundly refusing the navy blazer and diagonal striped tie Tim propositioned. _Not a debate club._

Tim thought it was Dick laying on the horn when they finally emerged but when he opened the back passenger door he saw it was Jason. He should have known. Dick was talking on his phone across the street from the car, pretending he didn't own it and the guy inside was a stranger. Jason stopped honking and yelled out the window he rolled down, “okay, Dickshit! Get the fuck in this can. Let's _go_!" Dick gave Jason a withering stare recognizable from any distance.

"—going to Paradise Island,” Tim heard Dick say as he got closer. “Sure, I'll tell her. See you Sunday? Great. Thanks for calling, Bruce. Say hi to the little guy for me."

Text on Barbara’s phone broke the news that Paradise Island was over an hour away but Dick promised it would be worth the leg cramps Tim suffered in the back of Dick's compact. Tim was relegated to the seat behind Jason whose passenger chair was all the way back and reclined a little too. Barbara was in the seat behind Dick with enough legroom to apply her makeup in the car and sign to Jason when he paid attention. Tim shifted restlessly in his couple inches and tried to ignore the thudding base next to his ear. If his experience with clubs so far was any indication, Tim had a lot more of the same in store that night. He would rather be on a plane to some place like the Dominican Republic just then.

Tim heaved a sigh and turned his cheek against the cool window. The interstate chased a storm a little outside Gotham that reflected Tim’s dampening spirits. It reminded him of the downpour the night he spent at Jason’s. And, since he brought it up, Jason’s inexplicable, tepid attitude to Tim since. They hardly knew each other, it was true; Tim didn’t know what he’d expected to happen. But he’d hoped for better than total avoidance. What had he done so wrong? Probably was too forward. Tim drew aimless circles on the fogging glass and berated himself over every dumbass slip of the tongue, poorly concealed checking-out and the idea he ever got in his head that Jason might have looked back at him once or twice.

Tim felt a light hand on his shoulder and he turned to the person attached to it. Barbara smiled genially at Tim and signed slowly. He nodded when he recognized a phrase or a concept but mostly Tim sighed inwardly. He was worried he was never going to get it. Barbara leaned across the middle seat and hooked a finger in the corner of Tim's mouth and encouraged it— forcibly— into a smile. More or less.

"Fun," she said plainly enough Tim could catch it, despite the efforts made by the music. Tim smiled for real and she sat back in her seat. Jason turned in his seat and inclined toward Barbara across the center console. Tim bit his lip in concentration and tried to follow the sign language with renewed resolve. He thought he might have caught a reference to himself but they were just too fast and the cabin was dimming. Their exchange was brief but Jason summarized it for Tim over the music when they were done. "Stay! With! Us! Don't! Take! Drugs! Strangers! Give! You!" It was the first thing Jason had said to Tim in two weeks. A teasing remark. Tim scowled and kicked the back of Jason's seat, Jason roared with laughter. Dick wanted to know what was so funny.

The traffic approaching Blüdhaven and finding parking turned their hour trip into two. Tim barely imagined feeling worse when he glimpsed inside the club and the people tripping over themselves leaving. It was clearly not the kind that was going to admit a nineteen year old. Not like the Iceberg Lounge or The Tower back in Gotham. Tim hailed Dick. "I don't think I can go in there,” he said anxiously.

Jason jeered. "Daddy wouldn't approve?” _Of you? Never._

"There’s alcohol. I'm not twenty-one.” Tim’s brow creased deeply. “I thought you knew?" he tacked on helplessly.

Jason looked triumphantly at Dick, who did not look concerned, to Tim’s bewilderment. "I told you he's fourteen,” said Jason.

"I'm not fourteen." _Ass._

Dick did not rise to Jason’s jest or fret, but smiled reassuringly at Tim. "Relax. You're with _us_." Tim still had deep reservations but the bouncer only glanced at Dick before ushering all four of them in with a friendly, “we’ve missed you”. Their little group took an immediate right inside the venue toward a vacant hallway and an office at the end. A woman called Diana hugged Dick and kissed Barbara’s and Jason’s cheeks. She shook Tim’s hand and asked how he knew ‘these crazy kids’. If Tim thought she showed deep, curious interest at Jason, for just a moment, when Tim mentioned the Sionis fight, he didn’t know what to make of it. She asked them to say hi to Bruce and admonished them to be safe and have fun.

Paradise Island was much like Tim had expected. Pounding music, provocative dancing, throbbing lights, booze and weed and worse. Tim was also dubious about calling it music, more bass than melody and none of it sounded like top forty. There were more women by an unexpected margin, for a boy used to his own crowd, and patrons were mostly Dick’s age. But, like all clubs, everyone was in states of undress and generalized debauchery.

The coke Tim had asked for was mostly rum. But he didn't say anything because he couldn't tell whether the bartender messed up or Jason had ordered it on purpose to spite him. Tim was nursing his first when the other three polished their seconds. Dick invited Tim to the dance floor but Tim shook his glass softly, the ice tinkling. Jason waved at Tim dismissively. It turned out rum had the benefit of dulling the sound of the music and convincing Tim maybe dancing wouldn’t be so bad after all. Jason made it look fun. Tim’s cheeks were ruddy. Surely from the alcohol. Then the crowd absorbed all three of them and Tim occupied himself with his rum and coke lest he make eye contact with interested parties.

By the bottom of the third glass Tim was successfully pried from his chair by a reappeared Barbara. He'd wondered earlier why a deaf girl seemed to enjoy the music so much, but as she lead him through the press of bodies Tim knew. He could _feel_ it under his feet, shaking the air. She directed him to a sliver of space between her and Dick, who seemed surprised but delighted to see him. "Tim! You're here!" he yelled over the riot as if he hadn't driven Tim for two hours. Tim wondered how to respond but he was elbowed in the ribs and pushed into Dick whose body kept rolling suggestively without skipping a beat. Tim recovered his footing with effort because Barbara crowded him from the back. Dick peered over his shoulder. "Look! It's Tim!”

Tim rose to his tiptoes and craned his neck a little to see whom Dick was talking to. He'd not recognized the man just behind Dick. Until he saw the fluid way Jason pivoted with his hips and the sculpt of Jason’s arms under the too-tight shirt between pulses of light. It resembled the way Jason danced on the canvas. His bulky, chiseled planes impossibly fast. And delicate. Reminding Tim of Jason weaving in and out around the other man. Always out of reach but sometimes so close! Tim envisioned that Jason’s contender could smell his minty breath. The only difference that night was Jason’s jaw was relaxed and his eyes were half lidded, lips forming words to some song Tim didn’t know. He looked relaxed. Or maybe buzzed.

His dancing was suspended just as soon as Dick spoke and Jason stared at Tim. Tim did not know why Jason looked at Tim the way he did. But Tim had a very compelling reason for looking right back at Jason the same way. His hair was untidy, like maybe he’d run his hands through it. There was bliss in the skinny ring of blue in his eyes; the way the color just fringed the enlarged pupils. He had ditched his gym hoodie somewhere since they got there, but he wasn't wearing a dingy white tank under it for once. It was only a dark red, deep V-neck tee shirt but it made Tim’s pulse hum. Jason’s fitted pants were slung _very_ low and the hem of his shirt had ridden up while dancing.

Of course, Tim had seen Jason topless and sweaty before. The frequent side glances at the gym while talking to someone else. Press photos and youtube videos of old fights. He'd seen them all a hundred times over.

But this was different. The tantalizing naked stripe glistened with sweat on the peaks of his lower abs and in the hollow of his molded pelvic bones felt forbidden. Tim had not seen the crawling shadow of hair down there before. Tim bit his lip and tried to look away. But then Dick peeled away to grind against Barbara and Tim was bumped right into Jason. Who caught him handily in his thick arms. Tim inhaled against Jason’s pecs in surprise and the other boy filled his head with the smell of mint and booze and cologne and sweat and sex. Desire pooled low in Tim. Just as smoothly as he caught him, Jason pushed Tim away and turned around. Jason pressed his body against a presumed stranger. A tall girl with green eyes and raging ginger hair.

Tim felt a surge of jealousy and wished he could stop staring indecently at the cut of Jason’s hips, at the narrow point where his spine met his butt. Until an elbow dug into his back, disrupting him. Tim turned and looked accusatorially for the repeat offender but the second time it was only Barbara.

"What?" demanded Tim loudly.

She looked meaningfully from Tim to Jason’s back. Tim’s stomach clenched. "No way in hell," he said. As much to Barbara as to himself. _Not any more._

_Probably._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not particularly relevant, but Tim's wearing a Thom Browne button down. A trademark design element are stripes on the left arm. Also, he's just hopelessly out of touch; thinking Paradise Island was in the tropics, not down the road. Someone help him!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and suggestions for improvement are always appreciated.


End file.
